Page:Tom Beauling (1901).pdf/167

 conscious of his body under the sheet He was more like an abstract intellect gone mad than a sick physical being. His delirium still harped on Lettice. Now he called that little pussy-cat "Gorgeous Arabian," and now "The haven where he would be." The precocity of his ravings was really shocking. A shadow streaming with tears was ever between them. They had packed his heart in ice, but they could not cool his love. He would give her his heart if he could get it out.

Three years later a boy of fifteen brought out a book of verses—a few sheets of cheap paper between pale-blue boards. The dedication was:

The book received but one press notice—four lines of utter and just condemnation—and nobody but those directly in-